“I’ll have my people get with your people,” I say, before I can overthink it.
“That shouldn’t be too complicated, considering they’re the same people.”
“Way to bring the faint aroma of incest into the mix.”
The person behind the counter glances at us before returning her attention to her book.
“Busted,” Felix mouths.
I look away to keep from laughing and am immediately distracted by something propped on a shelf along the back wall. My feet are moving before I form a conscious thought.
“What the hell?” Felix says from behind me.
“Isn’t that one of your grandfather’s paintings?” Part of me knows the answer is yes, because Mr. Gutierrez has a distinctive style: colors one shade brighter than real, with a surface texture thick enough to count the brushstrokes. He paints the frames too, so they feel like a continuation of the image inside. At the same time, I don’t trust the evidence of my eyes, because this painting should not be here. For as long as I can remember, it held pride of place in Claude’s apartment.
Felix gingerly lifts the square frame from the table, careful not to let the other random junk scrape the canvas. “Did she just get rid of it?”
I shake my head, because it makes no sense. The painting itself is beautiful, a dreamy portrait of the Castle Claude exterior that makes it look as magical as the Taj Mahal. Even if she didn’t want it, and was too mean to offer it to Felix’s grandpa, why didn’t she try to sell it? Mr. Gutierrez may not be world-famous, but I get the impression his art sells for real money.
“Where are the other ones?” Felix is looking around the store like the place is on fire. I’d forgotten that the picture of Castle Claude was flanked by two other paintings, close studies of vibrant orange-red flowers that almost looked like tiny flames. I don’t remember ever seeing plants like that in the courtyard, so either they died or it was artistic license.
We search every shelf and table, but there’s no sign of any more of his art. I try to tell myself that’s good news, but Felix still looks devastated.
“Let’s see if they have more in back,” I suggest, tipping my head at the checkout.
“Nah,” the cashier tells us, barely looking up from her book. “That’s the only one he brought in.”
“He?” Felix and I say in unison.
She marks her place with a finger. “I think he thought it was a pawn shop. He wanted us to buy it from him, and I had to break it down for him. We take donations. What is it with rich people? A car like that and he wants to make a quick buck off a charity shop?”
I don’t have to look at Felix to know we’re thinking the same thing.Bradley.Did his aunt give him the painting, or did he help himself when she wasn’t looking? Right now, there are more pressing questions.
“When was this?” I ask.
“Couple days ago, maybe. I could check,” she adds unconvincingly, “but he didn’t want a receipt. He was all, ‘Fuck it, I don’t need to screw around with this nickle-and-dime business.’ Like, okay big guy. I can tell you’re a real wheeler-dealer.”
Felix is breathing through his nose, lips clamped together. He looks like he’s barely holding it together. I turn to the cashier.
“How much? For the painting.”
Her eyes narrow. “You seem pretty interested. Is it a secret masterpiece, worth millions?”
I don’t like the way she’s eyeing it, so I pull the twenty out of my pocket and slap it on the counter. The cashier hesitates, looking from me to the crumpled bill.
Felix transfers the frame to one arm so he can dig out his wallet with the other hand. “Here.” He gives her another twenty.
“That’s all we have,” I tell the cashier, before she can get any funny ideas. “We want it for sentimental reasons. Our grandparents live there.”
“Oh.” She seems disappointed, but also 90 percent lessinterested, which is a win for us. “Go ahead and take it.” Our money disappears into the register.
“Thanks,” Felix says.
“Don’t mention it,” the cashier replies, already returning to her book. It has one of those thriller-y covers with the block letters and a background so dark you have to squint to figure out if it’s smoke or a creepy house or a murder island hiding in the murk.
I wonder what she’d say if we told her how close she came to a real-life mystery—or that she might have been one of the last people to see Bradley alive.
CHAPTER FOURTEENTHE BODY WITH THE KNIFE
